Sleepless Night
by MistterDay
Summary: Patrick is having trouble sleeping. With a cup of tea and a tormented mind, he's looking at the city and realizes he comes from a very long way. Patrick's POV.


Sacramento is beautiful tonight. It's a strange statement I know, but it's true. I never took the time to just stop and look at the city, I mean really look at it. I never found it ugly are even commonplace, but yet for an unknown reason, I am seeing things tonight I never noticed before. Maybe it is due to the quiet and warm atmosphere of the apartment. It's one of the few places where I feel secure, at ease. A high vantage point where I can watch the vibrant city and its hidden monsters.

Yeah, that must be it! It is those monstrous crimes that blinded me from admiring the secret beauty of Sacramento. Those hideous scenes engraved forever in my mind. At least, the people of the night seemed unaware of the danger lurking around every corner, until it's too late. Or maybe were they aware of the danger, but chose to live fully, in order not to regret anything later.

My eyes linger over every black spot they represent, following them, sometimes getting lost on the skyscrapers, illuminating the city. My city.

My cup of tea still steaming, I couldn't tear my gaze away from the banal yet fascinating display. I know I should get back to bed, but what for? Dive in the warmth of the covers, close my eyes and be welcomed by darkness? I'm not brave enough to go back there and face the obscurity and its best friend, loneliness. Is it why people love living at night? To escape this truth?

Resting my forehead against the window, I exhale sharply. Fatigue was overwhelming, but I resisted it. Lifting my hand, I sip my tea and savour the taste. Vanilla! Angela's favourite flavour. Isn't it strange how smells can bring back old memories? I can picture her face so perfectly, her bright smiles, her long white summer dresses, gold locks. Just like a portrait drew by a renowned painter, the memory of her still so vivid and clear. It was as if she never left. Except she did. Brutally murdered along with my daughter.

It took me years to recover, though I'm not sure you can actually heal from such tragedy. What I know now, is that comes a time when you have to move on. It is not easy, but necessary. I thought my life ended with the slaughter of my family. Convinced that nothing awaited me, I decided to live for vengeance. From that moment on, my goal laid in one name: **_Red John_**.

But the man is dead now, and having spend years living only for vengeance taught me one thing, a thing so obvious, so clear that I saw it with blinded eyes: I had nothing left. No goals, no dreams, nothing!

Everything died with Red John. My mission was over, I could have just let go, but I found redemption. He appeared as a worried friend.

I was so caught up in my thoughts I didn't notice a strong arm sneaking around my waist, making me jump. My surprise was soon replaced by a feeling of contentment, and I let myself fall into his strong body. He placed a small kiss on my nape, making me tremble.

"What are you doing up? Go back to bed" He said in a hoarse tone.

"Couldn't sleep. Five more minutes"

He didn't let me go, instead, tighten his grip around my middle and rest his head against my shoulder. For having voiced it out, he knows this is where I feel safe and protected more than anywhere else. He never gave up on me, never judged me, never cast the first stone. He is a good, honest cop.

I remember the time when we were friends. He was the only person I couldn't read. Always so stoïc, so abstruse. You could never read the emotions on his face. I would have given anything just to have a glimpse of the thoughts he was keeping like his most precious treasure. So yes, I admit it, when I started spending much more time with, my main motive was to be the first one to uncover his so well kept humanity.

Who would have thought he could fascinate me to the point of becoming a drug? At the time, I was a mere little muckraker, I was only seeing Cho as an exciting challenge, nothing more. But he opened up to me, trusted me, so I did the same thing. In a matter of months, he became everything to me, the only man who could see the ghost of my family perpetually dancing before my eyes. I was ashamed, so ashamed. To me, moving on meant forgetting them, denying the family we were. That's when his kindness saved me. With all his directness, he convinced me to move on for them.

"You have the chance to live the life they have been unfairly deprived of. You know what to do"

He was right. I love Angela and Charlotte, I love and respect them, this is why I needed to get on with my life. Just like them, there are so many people killed too soon. And, as family and friends, it is our duty to respect the memory of their life by living ours the fullest. Honouring them by cherishing their memory in our hearts. It is painful, it is hard, but necessary because life is a gift: Precious yet fragile.

One day my love, we will meet again, in the meantime, I will hold you close to my heart and engrave in my mind, my most precious memory of you: My two angels playing piano, an angelic smile on your faces.

Turning over, I wrap my arms around his neck and give him a tender kiss. Words were useless for us, we didn't need them. He takes my hand and leads me to our bedroom. I rest my head on his chest, letting his slow, steady heartbeats lull me to sleep.

"Goodnight Patrick" He murmured.

"Night Kimball"


End file.
